No Way In Hell I'm Gettin' Redemption
by Vixen2004
Summary: How do you tell your mother that you very nearly destroyed the world? [The aftermath of Riku’s flirtation with darkness, told around the comments of his mother.] I think it involves more than simply being sent to the time out chair.


AN: Oh gosh. I composed this to appease the masses. And more specifically, hopeislost908, because for some reason she finds great entertainment in reading Flaming Shadows and I have a problem with trying to continue it. (I swear, that thing has a cult following. _Why_? I do not understand. I wrote it four years ago. It deserves to be buried alive in the bowels of the ocean next to the Titanic and that stupid blue heart necklace Rose chucked at the end of the award winning movie. Moron. Who _throws_ something like that away? She should have sold the thing on Ebay. Anyway, I digress.) So here are my musings of Riku's aftermath, and what it is like to come home after nearly destroying the world.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It's very surreal to stand outside your house and be too afraid to go in.

I mean, really. Do I _look_ like a guy who would be afraid to go in? Do I look like I would be afraid of anything? I'm the type of guy who gives danger the middle finger. I laugh in the face of conflict, thrive off the enigma of controversial. That is my persona and that is the way it is going to remain, thank you very much. I must say, I thoroughly enjoy being Satan's one giant pain in the ass. The guy can throw whatever he wants at me and I'd just stand there and say, "Is that all?"

Of course, never mind that my midsection may be slashed open so my innards are on display and my visceral fluids are dripping onto the ground. Never mind that my skull may be bashed in or my appendages grotesquely dislocated so that they hang limp at oddly conceived angles. My balls are big enough to be their own two separate planets, gravitational pull and all, so it's fair to say I am much too proud to ever admit defeat, regardless of how much I may need to.

Besides, Satan's a lame ass anyway. The guy can't even convince a starving Christ out in the desert to eat a stupid piece of bread. I mean, really. His persuasion tactics suck. The man didn't even have a heavenly calvary with him and the guy still can't get him to do his bidding. And you expect _me_ to bow to the Eternal Prince of Darkness? Um, Riku here. I'm stubborn as all hell and as angst ridden as a middle schooler listening to an Evanescence CD. The only thing that guy may beat me in is a Live Journal contest seeing as though, while I may be fantastically emo, I do not go around calling myself the Prince of Darkness.

Like I said: lame ass.

Yeah, the thing that truly strikes fear into my heart? My Mom.

And she's standing on the other side of that door, waiting for me to come in. What do I say to this woman, anyway? Gee, you should have sent me to Sunday School more. Told me to eat my vegetables. Clean behind my ears. Do the dishes. And, oh yeah, try to not take over the world.

Pifft. Like I would have listened.

The woman was always nagging me about _something_, admittedly, that is probably because I never listen, but it's nothing personal. I blow everybody off. She just got to deal with it on a regular basis.

I knock on the door. It's not a timid knock (again, remember my balls, I have a reputation to maintain) but one with purpose and definition. One that says, 'honey, I'm home' except without the honey part. Because the revelation with be nigh the day I utter the endearment honey in reference to anyone of the female gender.

Aw hell, she's opening the door.

Discordia.

What do you say in a moment like this? What kind of pathetic apology can I pull out of my ass and lay in front of her in a reeking heap of crap? What kind of excuse can I barf up onto her lap and hope she finds appeasing?

"Ya know, I really should have hugged you more as a child," my mom says matter of factly, maintaining eye contact in that smoldering motherly way. "Then maybe you wouldn't have been so traumatized."

"It had nothing to do with your lack of affections," I respond dryly. "You dropped me as a child, remember? Down the stairs?"

She must remember this. But I can't really blame her. I was one fat assed baby and she was only eighteen. She didn't know how to carry me. Granted, I only dropped two steps, and it was on my butt, but I still like to hold her accountable for it; the sympathy card works wonders when you know how to use it.

"I'm still convinced I gave you too much NightQuill," she reprimanded. "Do you think it hurt your development?"

"I'm fine as far as I am concerned," I noted, shrugging mildly as if it really was no matter whether or not she gave me one tea spoon of medicine or ten. It was usually somewhere around six, if I recall correctly. She was always forgetting to read directions. And six seemed about right.

"Well, that's good," she intones. And then there's silence. That infamous, awkward, albeit expected, silence that wedges itself between two people who obviously don't know what to say to each other. I mean, there's plenty we could crap about. The weather. The time. Politics. My shoes. But she's not one to beat around the bush, and she popped me out of her oven, so neither am I.

"Can I come in?" I press, honestly wondering for a moment if she'll say no. Sometimes she does. Say no to things, I mean. Like when I was five and asked for a puppy. No. When I asked for an extra scoop of ice cream for dessert. No. When I asked for a water gun for my birthday so I could be real, real cool like the other kids. No. I can just picture her saying no once more, only this time she has obvious reason too.

"Yeah, I guess so. It is your home, after all."

"I seem to remember that."

She steps aside and allows me to enter. She's still as anorexic looking as ever, not intentionally, of course, but her metabolism is, like, light speed or something and the woman looks like a skin bag of organs and bones. Her hair is still that god awful, unruly mess it always was, only now it is much longer and chaotic, spitting curls out like slinkies all over her head. Red was the color of the day. Her hair pigment changes sporadically. It always did, ever since I could remember. Once it was purple. It looked like hell, I'm glad she changed it. That's all I need; to come home and witness a purple haired mother. Geesh. No wonder I like to flirt with disaster. Do you see where my genes _come_ from?

"Diggin' the locks," I slanged, pointing at my mother's tresses. She automatically reaches a hand up out of habit.

"Oh, these? Yeah, got them done. It's therapeutic, you know."

"By getting them done you mean you dyed 'em yourself out of a cardboard box."

"No, actually. I went to a salon. I treated myself after you disappeared. I was trying to cope."

Fantastic. I disappear off the face of the planet and my mom goes out and gets highlights. Now do we see why I am so messed up?

The first thing I notice, upon entering the dingy living room, was the smell that was wafting through the air and permeating my home. The smell never changed; it probably never will. There are hints of cigarette smoke in the air, hanging their teasing me with their tantalizing scents, even though I am positive Mom quit when I was born. I could see that she tried to cover the aroma up with scented candles (the cheap waft of citrus fruit notwithstanding) but I knew my house and I knew its smell. Something was off.

"You're smoking again," I comment. I danced between asking her and telling her. In the end, I told her, seeing as though I am Riku and I do these things.

"You never did," my mother retorts somewhat proudly, her eyes shining as though to say 'see, at least I did _that_ right.'

"And we all know what a complimentary boy scout I have turned out to be," I drip sardonically, leaving room for any verbal cyanide she felt the need to throw at me. She didn't, which was nice, but in all retrospect she probably should have.

"Are you...staying long this time?"

I glance at my mother after doing a full sweep of the kitchen. It looks the same. Messier, but still. At least she hadn't let the house go to hell in my absence. (Never mind that her son almost did.)

"Um, yeahhh," I state slowly, elongating the phrase to gauge her reaction. I scratch behind my neck in an untypical, unbecoming bashful manner. "I am still welcomed here, right?"

I say the former so softly it is scarcely audible. At first, I don't even think my mother has heard me. (Though, in the past, she was notorious for pretending not to hear me.)

"I don't see why not," she buffs, throwing on the mock façade of innocence. It is not a look she wears well. No one from my lineage can be innocent. We're guilty by nature. We probably commit crimes we're not even aware of, like when we're asleep or something.

I chose not to state the obvious and remind her I was formally a heart devouring psycho. Some things are better left unsaid.

"How come you waited so long to come and see me?" my mother asks, looking at me like she had practiced this conversation in her head a million and one times and knew exactly how it would go. Or how she would _like_ it to go. Lord knows I never do what I'm told.

"I've been back in town for just about a week," I mumble, trying to play it off as no big deal; death dancing sons return from the realms of darkness all the time.

"I heard about your arrival from Sora's mother." Simple stated fact.

"I guess that's good." Simple stated answer.

We're not getting anywhere.

"Piffft, why don't you just come out and say what you want to?" I exhale, tired of this ring around the rosie bull shit we usually never do. "Tell me you're disappointed in me, that I'm a horrible son, that I should have been a better person. Blame it on Dad for all I care. Just don't pretend that _nothing_ happened, when something oh so obviously _did_."

My mother nervously gnaws her lip till it bleeds. She was never one for poise. Neither am I. Genes run strong in this family.

"Only if you tell me how horrible I am first."

I blink. "Wait, what?"

My mom purses her lips tightly and continues to stare at me. It's unnerving, and not many things unnerve me. Ansem didn't unnerve me. Xemnas didn't unnerve me. Xehanort didn't unnerve me. In fact, there is not a single incarnation of that man that _could_ unnerve me. He could come back as a flamingly homosexual butt banging zombie and I'd just quirk an eyebrow and hand him a condom. But Sora doing the whole crying thing? _That_ unnerved me. And this. This unnerves me too.

"I wasn't a good mother," she supplies, folding her arms.

I remain silent.

How do you reply to something like that? You loved too fiercely and you loved too much; but you also drank in that same gratuitous manner. I was your sunshine but the bottle was your companion. You looked to me for joy but the alcohol was your fulfillment. You were my friend, not my mother. Real mothers don't let their kids set off fire works in the backyard in the middle of a drought. Real mothers don't applaud when you come home and announce that you have successfully received eight detentions in one week; which is saying something because there are only _supposed_ to be seven days in one week. Real mothers don't laugh at your dirty jokes, they reprimand them. They don't supply you with booze, they hide it. And the most certainly don't hand you a spray paint bottle and tell you to go to town.

Sora's mom baked cookies and made brownies. You ordered take out.

"I think eccentric fits nicely," I offer in a sparing way. I didn't feel the need to metaphorically kick the woman when she was negating to kick me for my wrong doings.

"Riku, I didn't finish high school. I don't even know what the hell that means."

I repress a smirk. Well, try to anyway. It peaks out a little, I'm sure.

"It means different," I say gently.

I am usually not one for gentleness.

"Are you going to raise your kids the same way?" she inquires.

While initially taken back by this sudden interrogation, I see no reason as to not answer it.

"Mom, I don't even have a _girlfriend_. Kids are a long way off."

(Vixen squees accordingly. She is then promptly shot thereafter for sticking in an author's note mid story and therefore ruining the continuity and atmosphere of an otherwise emotional moment.)

"You say that now," she intones, daring me to challenge her in this verbal exchange. Under normal circumstances I would, but with the situation being what it is, I opt not to seeing as though I nearly killed my best friend and destroyed the universe.

"Alright," I admit, giving in to her little game. "When I have kids, I'll be sure not to raise them the same way. There, is that what you wanted me to say?"

"Something along those lines," she replies softly, the response dying on her chapped lips as she continues to bite at the lower one subconsciously.

There is a lull in the conversation. I don't know how to resuscitate it and I'm not sure that I want to. But seeing as though I made it this far I might as well continue with the audacity I'm known for.

"Do you still love me?" I shot out abruptly. I avert eye contact. The floor needs to be vacuumed. I used to do that for her when I was a kid. I got five bucks a week for doing stupid chores around the house. I wonder whose been doing them now that I was gone?

"Of course I love you!" my mother snaps, anger etched into her sharp features as she attacked the absurdity of such a statement. The dramatic irony is not lost on me, and I find it amusing that such a proclamation is dictated so harshly. "You're my son."

"Ah," I retort. "But do you like me?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You have to love me because I'm your son," I elaborate, even though it was never my forte. "You don't have to like me."

"Riku, stop acting like a child," my mother scolds, like I am six again and she's feeding me the wrong amount of medicine. "You know the answers to these questions."

"Nice aversion," I quip.

"I wasn't avert...aver...Riku I don't know what these words _mean_!"

I let her voice echo through out the dilapidating house. I'm used to it by now. She was notorious for screaming when I was a child. I'm desensitized now. Almost to the point where I expect my wife to holler and yell at me when I forget to take out the trash, because isn't that normal? Half the reason I was so damn taken by Kairi was that her voice never got above whisper. Sue me for finding that captivating, but when the only female role model in your life is a chain smoking alcoholic? Yeah, I thought it was a good find.

"Do you ever wish you had an abortion?" I continue unrelentlessly. I know my mother doesn't deserve this interrogation, but I have to know. It's been pent up for so long, this conversation is way past over due. It just took me going insane to put it out in the open.

There is a deafening silence as the air between us goes stagnant.

"Yes," she answers softly, her mouth holding the form of the word after it was already exhaled from her throat.

I expected as much.

"Glad you didn't," I finish off with. She deserved some sort of consultation for her honesty. Congratulations! You were truthful, the grand prize: a kind word from Riku! This just in: the apocalypse is nigh.

"I couldn't," she whispers, hand making the ascension to her mouth. "I just couldn't."

"Not complaining here," I note, trying to save the moment from going totally to hell. I didn't intend to reduce the woman to a sobbing pile of emotional mayhem. I just needed an answer. I've needed a lot of answers for a very long time. Some things just can't be spared being said.

I walk to the living room window, finding it too difficult to keep my eyes on my own mother. My head clashes against the pane as I stand there and brood, wondering how it all came down to this and who was really to blame at the end of the day. We could point fingers forever, hell, we could blame it on Sora' Great Great Grandma if we really wanted to. But in the end it all comes down to me, and the fact that I was not enough of a man to resist the temptation of darkness.

"So whose fault is it?" my mom finally asks, looking at me for answers.

I turn from the glass and meet eyes with her bloodshot ones.

"Why don't we just blame the whole thing on the devil and call it a day?"

My mom starts at this suggestion. Then I watch it slowly sink into her mind, and she registers the idea quickly thereafter. A smile spreads across her face, a timid one, but a smile nonetheless, and I am left standing across from the woman that raised me through all her faults and transgressions.

"For a neglected child, you came out pretty good," my mom remarks, cocking her head to one side in a contemplative manner.

"I like to think so," I reply.

We stand there for a moment longer before she finally pulls me in for a clumsy hug she is not used to giving and I am not used to receiving. It was awkward and drawn out, but it happened, and in the end I feel better having it did.

So, yeah. I'm screwed up, but I've got plenty of other screw ups that love me regardless. So I guess it's not the end of the world if you become psychotic and give into things another man, whom I had previously considered a boy, was strong enough to resist. I didn't get the girl and I didn't get the glory. But I've got a mom who, somewhere between the cigarettes and the vodka, found enough time to love me despite her transgressions and in spite of mine.

Broken people breed broken off spring, but somewhere down the line one of them eventually learns and is able to change things around, for the better, no doubt. So maybe my kids won't have to hitch hike home from soccer practice because their parents are drunk or rely on the kindness of strangers to get them to school on time. Maybe I'll be able to raise a kid right and teach him there is good in the world, even though we're all flawed, we can still strive to be right, and in the end, isn't that really all that matters?

-o-o-o-o-o-o

AN: Woot! A Riku drabble from my heart to yours. I miss writing as him, and one of these days I'm going to have to drag Flaming Shadows out of the gutter and revamp it so it's actually presentable. But for now, I leave you with my musings of the aftermath, since it is often negated. Constructive criticism is welcomed. I would love to make this piece better. Sometimes re-editing is the most enjoyable part. Anyway, leave reviews, for they make my day. Tell me what you think. And be honest, gosh darn it. I'll give you a cookie anyway!

(I hope you got your Riku fix hopeislost908!)


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